


Gets Late Early

by stephanericher



Category: ROBOT x LASERBEAM (Manga)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 08:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: It’s his last year of high school, and the road map to his future that he’s drawing so carefully doesn’t include golf like this.





	Gets Late Early

**Author's Note:**

> the circumstances surrounding this probably didn't happen but as long as fjmk doesn't specifically say it didn't, i will consider it possible
> 
> at some point imma write these two doing something other than rainy golf.....probably

When it rains in the spring, it’s a welcome sight, about to coax the world to turn green and stay that way, in bloom, the smell of wet grass on the course a promise of things to come, seasons to vanquish and matches to win. The humidity’s not yet unbearable; it’s easy to forget how awful the summers can get and to think of them as something to hope for when the rain is getting warmer and the brown of winter is disappearing.

When it rains this late in the fall you can see your breath. The yellow and brown leaves coat the golf course, despite the best efforts and promises of the grounds crew; the rain makes Rion’s feet nearly slip on them. Three holes in and Rion’s just waiting for Gen to admit it’s a horrible idea; yes, Rion needs the practice and yes, they haven’t really played together in fuck-all how long, but this isn’t the way to do it. Even in his gloves, Rion’s hands are fucking freezing, and his windbreaker does absolutely nothing to stop the rain from getting into his face. He scowls into the wind and watches as Gen stares at his ball, setting up his shot.

Even in shitty air like this, the sound of the club on the ball is clear. The shot is graceful, the ball curved slightly by the wind but Gen’s corrected it enough so that it lands less than a meter from Rion’s. Gen’s face is still stern; he wipes off his glasses again. Rion sighs.

“Are we really going to do this?”

“You don’t want to?”

“Not really,” says Rion. “Not if it’s going to be like this. It’s cold and my face is starting to get numb, and if you want to talk about it you should just. Talk about it.”

He can see Gen’s grip tighten on the club, the fabric of his gloves straining against his fingers.

“Are you mad at me?” Rion presses, because at this point he’s not so sure.

“No,” Gen says shortly. Then, “Maybe.”

“I mean,” says Rion. “I know it’s my fault. If I hadn’t pushed you guys to let the kid on the team and stuff, and hadn’t given him the chance, then I’d still be starting. And it’s not like it doesn’t hurt; I’m not totally selfless about the team or whatever.”

“I know,” says Gen. “You didn’t do it on purpose. But it’s my last year.”

It’s his last year of high school, and the road map to his future that he’s drawing so carefully doesn’t include golf like this. He’s probably good enough to get a chance on a college team or some low level pro circuit, but it’s not about good enough; it’s not about that. Even if it did, there’s no guarantee their golf futures won’t diverge, take sharply opposite turns on roads that don’t meet again, or at least roads they can’t trace back by the time it’s too late. (What’s the difference?)

It’s Gen’s last year, and Rion’s not starting, and the best they’re going to get is this. A course in the rain in the late fall, a weekend when they don’t have practice and Gen’s not studying for entrance exams or at a match or an afternoon when Rion’s not stuck on the sidelines wrangling the first-years and watching (at least he gets to watch Gen, memorize his form—golf is often inelegant but Gen’s stance is the opposite, his swing steady and his focus sharper than a shot through clear air). They were supposed to get this year, though, playing together, supporting each other and competing to see whose score can stay low the longest; maybe it’s selfish to be disappointed that the team got better but this is fucking high school golf.

“Hey,” says Rion.

Gen looks at him, and Rion can barely see his eyes through the rain on his glasses. But he can see enough, and his gut and knowing Gen tells him the rest.

When Gen kisses him it’s not soft and quick like the kind of things they’re used to getting away with on golf courses, under the cover of the trees or behind a strategically-placed cart, crouching down next to particularly large bag (not that Gen lets Rion get away with that one too often anyway). It’s deep and full of all  the messy feelings Gen doesn’t like to articulate, want and frustration and being overwhelmed. One of his hands reaches up to Rion’s shoulder, skids against the fabric of his windbreaker; he’s still holding his club and the end brushes past Rion’s cheek.

“I wanted this, too, you know,” Rion says.

He’s not going to apologize, but Gen doesn’t want him to.

“I know,” says Gen.

He attempts to wipe off his glasses with a gloved thumb; it doesn’t seem to be very effective and Gen scowls. Rion leans on his club.

“You’re cute, Gen.”

Gen nearly drops his glasses, and when he looks back at Rion his face is almost unreadable (maybe that’s just the squint of trying to see him through the rain with no glasses).

“That’s,” says Gen, and he doesn’t finish (he probably can’t think of an animal to compare Rion to this time).

His shoulders relax as he picks up both of their balls, sticking his club back in the soaked bag before offering it to Rion. It’s then Rion gets it, the smile tugging at Gen’s lips and the way he’s just looking, uninhibited.

“You’ve been worried about us.”

“Yes,” says Gen, sounding like he’s cut off a sigh before uttering it, retraction of the blade before it gets out of the sheath at all.

“Hey,” says Rion, reaching for his hand.

This isn’t a situation he can lighten; the right thing to say, to make him feel better isn’t immediately at the tip of his tongue. He’s searching for it, but all the paths are inscrutable, plunged into darkness. He wants to say that of course this won’t affect them, even when it already has; he wants to tell Gen to voice his insecurities, but the more he thinks about that the more it comes into focus why he still wouldn’t want to.

“We’ll be okay,” says Rion, hoisting the golf bag over his shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that if you do it for me.”

“Deal,” says Gen, quiet but not quiet like he’s afraid his voice is about to crack.

He squeezes Rion’s hand, and despite the gloves and the rain and the cold air, Rion’s skin feels a little bit warmer.


End file.
